


Unanswered

by quintessentialidea



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-26 00:29:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quintessentialidea/pseuds/quintessentialidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hanji always believed that every question has an answer, but then as she ponders, racking her brain to answer his, a question she never failed to answer before, albeit jokingly or seriously—she couldn’t, and she actually realizes she never wanted to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unanswered

**Author's Note:**

> My tribute to the Levi squad, may they rest in peace.

She walked slowly, feet numb and silent as she passed by door after door, weary and dejected, thinking about the occupants who would have been behind her screaming, whining, basking in their glory as they recount their latest mission as Levi’s squad. She felt her throat constrict, her eyes prickling with tears that she promised would never fall.

She wasn’t particularly close to them, but then maybe she had been for they were the group she sits with first thing in the morning, the ones she conspires pranks to pull at their Captain in dreary days, the ones she talks to while sipping bland tea by the dying fire at the mess hall. She supposes that she’d miss them. After all, they’ve been part of her life, from dawn to dusk. Sadly, however, they’ve gone ahead of her.

At the end of the narrow hall was a door no different from others except for the light sifting through the space between the door and the floorboards, an evidence of life in the still, gloomy passage which was once full of life, of cacophonous laughter and cajoles, of panicked screams and scratches of blades as they hurried downstairs for breakfast.

She eyed her blurred reflection on the brass doorknob. She reeked of death, like she usually does after an excursion, and she looked like a fright: Haunted, empty eyes, unkempt hair haphazardly tied on top of her head, cracked lips, and blood drained from her face. Momentarily, she wondered where she’d gone, the girl full of life and energy, of great hopes for humanity, and when she’d been replaced with this empty shell before her, devoid of emotion and stripped off of her previous self. She supposed that it was all because of war. When one enters it, no matter how many times you tell yourself you have to be ready and prepare to do so, you really aren’t. There would be a life-changing event that catches you off-guard and in the next moment you don’t know yourself anymore. 

The war changes everyone, no matter how high you build walls around your heart, no matter how strong and certain you would never fail—you would crumble and you will never be the same again.

Faintly, she heard a rustle of sheets behind the door and wondered if what she thought was true, especially with a man like him. She wondered if he experiences the pain gripping her heart until she could no longer breathe, if he is agonizing himself like she imagines him to be, or if he is sitting on his desk, signing paper after paper, reading death logs like he usually does before this fateful day with nothing but a mask on, keeping his feelings for his comrades, his team, his family that have fallen.

But he is strong.

And she believed that he would carry on like he does before.

She was surprised to see him not settled behind his desk, buried in paperwork with a cup of tea prepared by Petra on his desk. His desk was empty except for stacks of paper work on one side, folders on the other, an abandoned pen, a half-empty ink bottle and a cold cup of tea beside it. She turned to his bed and found him there, sitting with his head bowed down and elbows on his knees, his gear all over the floor and his cloak lying hopelessly beside him.

And at that point she realizes that he, too, is human. That he, too, can feel, and that he, too, can feel pain just like anyone else.

"Levi?"

He didn’t speak nor acknowledged her presence and briefly, she thought of leaving him alone to his musings, because this moment is private. Grieving for them is private, and the bond he has with them that she never has was enough to make her choke up on the tension that hung inside the room, of the ghastly wails of trust and dedication to their captain. 

She wanted to remind him jokingly that there were paperwork to do and she wouldn’t want to do his part just because of this moment but she couldn’t. It was a rare sight to see him vulnerable and down and she couldn’t bear to add salt in his fresh wound at the moment.

She wanted to embrace him, to stroke his hair, to comfort him in any way possible, she wanted him to forget even for a moment everything that had happened—but she couldn’t and he wouldn’t. How could he forget about them? 

So she kept silent, standing there awkwardly in the middle of the room, eyes unblinking, waiting, waiting, waiting for him to speak, to lash, to scream, to cry—anything that would assure her that he is alive—living.

"Do you want anything?"

He laughed, empty and bitter, and she cringed.

"I want a lot of things, but does that change anything?" She bit her lip and mentally berated herself for her tactlessness. "Nothing can ever be changed."

"I know."

"You don’t."

And she knew that he was right, her half-assed attempt of empathy was thrown in the drain with two words breathed out like dirt on his clothes, like it meant nothing to him. She wanted to make him feel better, she wanted to see him smile, if you can call the way he curls his lip one, she wanted to hear him scream at her carelessness—she, too, wants a lot of things, and yet, just like he said, it can never change anything. There was no point wanting something out of reach, wanting something that never existed—all it does is give you a heart-wrenching pain that drains the life out of you as you gasp for breath, vainly reaching for the ones that slipped from your grip.

And so she lets go, and says, barely audible in the silence dominating the room, “I know.”

He doesn’t look up, instead he pushes his cloak aside revealing fresh parchments from this morning: four, with distinctive scrawls etched permanently on the paper, worn at the edges. Four messages, four messages from the people he’d never meet again to ask about their incompetence and shenanigans, four people that had been part of his life, four people that left a mark in his life, four people who took a piece of him away, leaving him with nothing but pain and emptiness.

"Since you know a lot," She jolted from her musings, "tell me, Hanji, why?" For the first time she entered the room, their eyes met and though they weren’t red and puffy as she expected, the depth of his eyes, the emotions flickering at every second that ticked was an answer for her, "I’ve already lost a lot, why do I still have to lose more?”

She stood there, racking her brains for anything that would be reasonable, anything that would satisfy his thirst for an answer, anything that could fill the void eating him up, anything that would placate his and her empty feelings, anything. There is always an answer to a question, she believed. All they have to do is search for it, dig deep, extract it from the farthest corners of their minds, there was never a question that would be left unanswered to her. But then, but then as she ponders, racking her brain to answer his, a question she never failed to answer before, albeit jokingly or seriously—she couldn’t, and she actually realizes she never wanted to know. 

But she still gives him one, “I don’t know, Levi. I don’t know. And honestly,” she garbled, as finally tears began to stream down her face as she crumples on the ground in front of him, humanity’s strongest. “I don’t want to.”

Later, he would sit beside her and stay silent, waiting for her tears to run dry, for her sobs to stop echoing inside the room, staring blankly at his desk, waiting, waiting for the door to creak open, the air be filled with the scent of freshly poured tea and the sound of raucous laughter that would never come again.

And she would stay, because that’s all she could give and all he could accept at that moment, and for her, for him, she supposes that it was enough.


End file.
